Before We Were Yours

by Lisa Wingate

One of the best things a father can do for his daughter is let her know that she has met his expectations.

Should Elliot and I have experienced some sort of…lightning bolt moment, rather than the relaxed drift from childhood adventures to adult friendship to dating to engagement because, after six years of dating, it seems like it’s time? Is there something wrong with us because we haven’t tumbled in headfirst, because we’re not in a rush?

What is going on? I’ve never had something like this happen to me. Ever. I don’t do mental lapses. I’m not easily taken in by people. I don’t behave improperly with strangers. The paramount importance of not doing those things has been impressed upon me since birth, and law school was a good reinforcement.

The argument ends where all of our arguments do—on the altar of compromise.

It’s funny how what you’re used to seems like it’s right even if it’s bad.

Life is not unlike cinema. Each scene has its own music, and the music is created for the scene, woven to it in ways we do not understand. No matter how much we may love the melody of a bygone day or imagine the song of a future one, we must dance within the music of today, or we will always be out of step, stumbling around in something that doesn’t suit the moment. I let go of the river’s song and found the music of that big house.

“A woman’s past need not predict her future. She can dance to new music if she chooses. Her own music. To hear the tune, she must only stop talking. To herself, I mean. We’re always trying to persuade ourselves of things.”

But the love of sisters needs no words. It does not depend on memories, or mementos, or proof. It runs as deep as a heartbeat. It is as ever present as a pulse.